


Heavyweight

by GretchenSinister



Series: Blacksand Boxing AU [1]
Category: Rise of the Guardians (2012)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Boxing, Alternate Universe - Human, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-19
Updated: 2020-03-19
Packaged: 2021-03-01 05:07:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,312
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23219758
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GretchenSinister/pseuds/GretchenSinister
Summary: emeraldembers asked: "I'M TRYING TO NARROW DOWN WEIRD THINGS THAT I LIKE AND IT IS GOING ABSOLUTELY NOWHERE AS I'M INTO APPROXIMATELY EVERYTHING EVER TO SOME DEGREE. AAAAAARGH. So I'm going to go with something bordering on the outright vanilla, which is to request Pitch getting completely hot and flustered whenever Sandy punches the crap out of something. HE CAN'T HELP IT IT'S THE TINY FISTS AND POWERFUL ARMS THEY DO THINGS TO HIM"Happy Birthday emeraldembers! Oooh man this ask is like, months old, so it’s almost like a surprise birthday fic?Anyway, here it is; 1,315 words for you:Summary: Sandy’s a boxer, Pitch is a guy who runs a lot. They go to the same gym and Pitch is awkwardly obsessed with the little heavyweight.
Relationships: Pitch Black/Sanderson Mansnoozie
Series: Blacksand Boxing AU [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1669453
Kudos: 8
Collections: Blacksand Short Fics





	Heavyweight

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on Tumblr on 6/15/2014.

_One-two, one-two, one-two._ Sandy attacks the heavybag like a machine, his little tape-wrapped fists making the canvas sway like Pitch knows his own never could. From his place on the treadmill, Pitch can watch every hit, every combination, every hook and jab, everything he doesn’t even have names for. He can watch Sandy add footwork to his exercises, watch him move so light on his feet despite the extra weight he carries, but hey, that’s not surprising, right? He’s watched him matter-of-factly lift the kind of weights Pitch had thought were only at the gym for show, he knows that under the padding Sandy’s dense as a neutron star. And it’s easy to see as Sandy keeps working, flex of all the arm muscles, yes, and as he sweats and his t-shirt clings to his back, flex of all the shoulder muscles, too. But he needs the speed with the strength, most other heavyweights have a much longer reach than he does, Pitch guesses, though most of what he knows about boxing comes from brief snatches of overheard conversation between Sandy and North.

_One-two, one-two, one-two._ Makes Pitch run faster, like he’s trying to catch Sandy, of course he never could, but the illusion, the illusion’s improved his time so much, God, when did he become such a gym creeper? North ought to have kicked him out by now. But for Sandy, oh, he’s harmless, so harmless, Sandy could deck him if he tried anything, Sandy could pick him up and throw him if he tried anything, almost makes him want to try something.

“See you tomorrow,” Sandy says to North when he leaves, as Pitch keeps running, running faster, don’t think about Sandy in the locker room and how he could be there too. When Sandy leaves he pulls the emergency stop and leans, panting and red-faced, over the bars, wouldn’t take nearly as much time for Sandy to leave him in this state, oh no.

He reads the bulletin board as he does his cool down stretches, trying not to think of how he’s gotten better about doing them since he considered how flexibility might make him more desirable to Sandy, Sandy who doesn’t even know he exists, just another skinny fuck trying to replace all his other bad habits with running if he noticed him at all, and he’s right too, he’d traded cigarettes for marathons but it wasn’t because he’d seen the virtuous light.

And then, on the board, a flyer, a flyer with tomorrow’s date, a flyer with tomorrow’s date and the name of a boxing tournament. The name of a place Sandy’s likely to be. The name of a place where Sandy expects to be watched.

Knockout. Knockout. Knockout. Pitch knows he should know more about boxing by now, but he doesn’t, not at all, sitting in the front row with his legs crossed and program spread across his lap. He’s being overly cautious, he knows, but if he gets so caught up in Sandy’s bout that he does react, he doesn’t want anyone to notice. So far though, it’s only been dry mouth and pounding heart as he’s watched Sandy win every one of his bouts, dry mouth and pounding heart as he knocks down taller men, knocks down men more superficially fit, as he goes through round after round barely needing North’s services as his cutman.

He’s a powerhouse, an infighter, and he goes into the last bout a little more tired, a lot more sweaty, but with the same beatific smile that always seems to infuriate his opponents as it dampens Pitch’s palms. Pitch can tell that this fight is more of a struggle than the others, Sandy’s punches not weakening this opponent as quickly as the fighters before, but he knows Sandy’s going to win, of course he’s going to win, oh, could he be the prize? If Sandy would like his arms around his waist better than that belt with the giant golden buckle, oh, if Sandy could show him what it was like to be at the mercy of his strength in a gentler setting, oh!

And Sandy does win, Pitch joining in the applause just a fraction of a second late as he pulls his focus back to the present, the reality where he’s not likely to ever get to see Sandy work himself into a sweat in any but this violent way.

He grins a gap-toothed grin as he puts the belt on, and Pitch grips the armrests of his flimsy plastic seat. He wants him so bad he can’t breathe. He feels like he’s running his first mile after his last cigarette.

And then—horror! Sandy’s gone back over to North, and as he drinks water in a way that Pitch knows only seems so obscene to him, North bends down to say something to him, and as he does, he points directly to Pitch. Sandy’s gaze follows his finger, and for the first time, he meets Pitch’s eyes. Sandy looks surprised, and Pitch feels the blood drain from his face. What is he doing what is he doing what is he doing? Sandy shrugs on his bright yellow silk robe and heads towards Pitch. Pitch considers trying to leave with the crowd, but after the eye contact, he feels frozen.

He feels even more pinned in place as Sandy leans on the barrier between the space for the fighters and their crews and the audience. “Hey there,” he says. “You’re from the gym, aren’t you?”

Pitch nods, wills himself not to babble, he doesn’t need to apologize, this was a public event, why shouldn’t he be here?

“You know,” Sandy says, “at the gym, I pegged you as an asshole at first. With all your running and not talking to anyone, and me being the fine figure I am—”

_Very fine_ , Pitch nearly gasps.

“—I guessed that the first thing you’d say would be something rude after my warm-up sprints. Thought you were watching me ‘cause you were looking for the opportunity. Avoiding the locker room when I was in it because you didn’t want to believe that hard work sometimes still gives you this kind of heavyweight.” He gestures to himself and Pitch reconsiders his plan of hiding behind his program and offering a series of really bad excuses. _You’re the carrot on the stick in front of me_ —well, that wouldn’t help the situation at all.

“But,” Sandy says, settling more comfortably onto the barrier. “Seeing as how my fights were so easy on North, he got the chance to notice you. And he says you were watching my bouts with the same expression as a thirteen-year-old boy who just learned that they take pictures of naked ladies.” He pauses. “And not _just_ ladies.” He raises an eyebrow. “So he’s offered an alternative explanation for you watching me.”

“I…” how does his mouth work again? He needs it to work, it might be important, he _wants_ it to be important. “You’re amazing. And you could take me apart. And I like that—I mean! I, um, my name’s Pitch, can I call you Sandy, can I get to know you better?”

Sandy’s eyes flick up and down his body. “Sure, Pitch. Interesting name, there—”

“It’s not descriptive. I mean, it doesn’t have to be,” Pitch says too quickly. Sandy raises his eyebrows, and Pitch feels himself flush brick red.

“If you stick around while I get cleaned up, we can go for drinks after this,” Sandy says.

Pitch nods eagerly.

“Good,” Sandy says, drawing out the word in a way that doesn’t diminish Pitch’s blush. “You can wait with North.” He laughs. “Don’t believe a word he says about me. And you don’t have to be so nervous.” He winks. “I’m not gonna hurt you.”

After several minutes, Pitch manages to join North ringside.

**Author's Note:**

> Tags and Comments from Tumblr:
> 
> #North is sort of Sandy's coach#do they do the do after getting drinks#actually no#Sandy does want to get to know him better#because at this point Pitch is so darn nervous#there was some sloppy drunk kissing though
> 
> emeraldembers reblogged this from gretchensinister: AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH
> 
> Oh my gosh I love how all of this feels sort of breathless and hard paced like running, even the wording just makes everything feeling like Pitch’s racing heartbeat, it’s so gorgeous, and oh of course of course he’s giving up cigarettes for this and of course Sandy takes no prisoners and asdfasdfasafsd
> 
> This is perfect and I love you and thank you for such a fabulous birthday present <3! *tacklehugsmooch*
> 
> whentheoceanmetsky reblogged this from gretchensinister: #PITCH THE SAD NERVOUS BRICK STRIKES AGAIN #OH HELLO POWERKINK #I DIDN'T EXPECT TO SEE U HERE #/WHEEZES


End file.
